Over the next hour, they worked on him. They cleaned the deep gashes, the needle finally doing its work as Cyan drifted into a dull, chemical haze. They put six stitches in his forehead and right eye and another eight in his shoulder. His arm was set, a process that made me have to look at the ceiling, and encased in a stark white cast.
"This ruins my entire aesthetic," Cyan murmured, staring mournfully at the plaster.
"Be grateful you're alive," I said, leaning back in the chair I'd pulled up to the bed.
Cyan looked at me, his eyes finally losing their frantic edge. He looked away, his voice dropping into a register I rarely heard from him. "Yeah. I am."
The medical staff eventually filed out, leaving us in a heavy, ringing silence. The adrenaline was finally leaving my system, leaving behind a cold, hollow reality.
